Fleeting Memory
by Izulia
Summary: Chekov is recovered from the planet Avior after disappearing under mysterious circumstances on a peaceful mission. The only problem is - he has lost his memory. Sulu and Uhura must help him recover his true self and thereby discover why he disappeared and who was responsible. Little do the crew know that there are forces at play which could destabilize the whole sector.
1. Chapter 1

Captain Kirk materialised on the planet and surveyed the land that coalesced around him. Open fields dotted with woods stretched into the distance while large yellow insects buzzed at their edges in the evening sunshine. It seemed to be Spring and Kirk found himself standing in a field of bright green crop shoots. Everything looked almost idyllic until the sight of thick black smoke rising from behind one of the woods marred the scene. An acrid smell of fuel stung the air. He glanced over as Dr McCoy materialised next to him. The doctor took in a deep lung full of air but frowned at the smell. He put up his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun and began to look around him. He quickly spotted a group of men sitting by a small woodland copse a short distance away.

"That must be them," said the doctor. "He's got to be with them."

Kirk nodded and screwed up his eyes. "Let's go."

The two men set across the field, their legs swishing through the knee length shoots, disturbing small clouds of tiny creatures. It had been two months since they had last seen Chekov. Kirk had sent him and two others from the navigation team to the planet Avior in answer to a call from one of the continents to assist with cartography systems in the capital. He hadn't realised that he was sending them into a bitterly fierce and protracted war. It had taken Kirk days of negotiating to receive permission to have one of them, Chekov, returned. And only he had been returned because no one knew where the others even were. It was a sorry situation.

They approached the group. There were about twelve soldiers sat in a huddle around a small fire that had just been lit. Wood smoke drifted up lazily into the still evening air which was just starting to cool after a warm and humid day. Some of the men were sat on the ground while others perched on a fallen tree trunk. A jumble of clothing, helmets and equipment was piled up at the edge of the group. Cans of water were lined up next to the fire, waiting to be boiled. The men were silent, each one hugging a weapon that resembled a phase rifle. One of the men was drawing slowly but absent-mindedly in the dust with a stick. Their uniforms matched the bright green of the surrounding scenery but they looked old, dusty and torn. As Kirk and McCoy neared the group one of the soldiers got up from his position on the end of the tree trunk, still clutching his rifle. He was a tall man with light brown hair and pale, almost translucent blue eyes. A jagged scar ran from the bottom of his right eye to his ear. He had probably been good-looking once, but the war had left his face harsh and lined.

"You must be from the starship," he said by way of greeting. "I was told you were coming. I'm Colonel Fann."

Kirk hesitated, expecting some kind of physical greeting, such as a bow or a hand shake to respond to. When none was forthcoming he merely nodded. "I'm James Kirk, captain of the Federation Starship _Enterprise_ and this is my chief surgeon, Dr McCoy," he introduced them. "It's taken us a long time to get to this point. Your war seems to have no solution at present and no one seems willing to talk to anyone – not even to me."

Fann looked them both over, thinking at the same time. "Shonen's war with Strite is winnable," he said, as if repeating a well-worn phrase. "They invaded our borders and they will be pushed back – all the way to the Dallanian Sea if necessary. But I don't suppose that concerns your Federation, does it? You could end this war with your Starship in one hour. Just one volley of your phasers could bring Strite to its knees."

"The Federation has no part to play in your war, Colonel Fann," replied Kirk, trying to keep his tone neutral and ignoring Fann's leading conversation. "I haven't come to debate politics. I have come to get my navigator back."

"So where is he?" said McCoy looking at the group, frowning. "I don't see him. Are you keeping him somewhere?"

Fann barked a sound that Kirk took to be a laugh – something Fann didn't do very often, he supposed. The colonel turned to the group of soldiers.

"Chekov!" he shouted sharply. "Over here! Someone wants to see you."

One of the younger soldiers who had been sitting with his back to the captain and doctor on the tree trunk threw down the stick he had been drawing with in the dust. He stretched his broad shoulders and ran a hand up the close shaven dark brown hair at the nape of his neck. He turned his head to look at the colonel – it was Chekov. The high collar of his uniform jutted under his jaw, which was smeared in dirt and blood. His Slavic features and dark eyes contrasted against the flat, robust faces of the other soldiers with their glittering blue eyes.

"Now, Chekov!" said Fann with tired annoyance that spoke of the many times he had been ignored.

The other soldiers turned round with a mild curiosity as Chekov got up with a sigh like a troublesome teenager and walked unwillingly over to the group, trailing the tip of his rifle just above the dusty ground. McCoy pulled round his tricorder from behind his back and turned it on to begin scanning. Chekov looked at it warily as he approached, his eyes assessing the captain and doctor.

Kirk looked intently at his navigator.

"Mr Chekov?" he said, feeling concern knotting at the bottom of his stomach.

He looked the same, although his hair and clothes were different and he was covered in sweat and dirt. Something wasn't right about him.

Chekov raised his chin and looked him directly in the eyes, his gaze haughty and cold. Kirk recoiled inwardly. It wasn't the look that appalled him – it was the complete lack of recognition. Chekov turned to Fann.

"Who is this?" he asked with an arrogant toss of his head, shaking his matted hair out of his eyes. Some of the other soldiers began to move up to join him, to see what was going on. They made a menacing group. One of them threw a blood-stained arm around the Russian's neck and leant on him heavily.

"Are these the people from that starship you're from? Have they come to get you?" he said sneeringly, poking Chekov in the ribs with a grimy finger. Guffaws rose from the men.

Chekov shrugged the man away. "For the last time, Mott, I'm not from a star ship," he said peevishly with a curl of his lip.

"Then why do you keep drawing stars?" shouted over one of the others still sat on the tree trunk. He pointed down to where Chekov had been drawing with the stick on the ground. "You've drawn them here talk about them in your sleep. I'd say you were obsessed. Perhaps you do come from the stars."

Kirk walked over to the camp fire and looked down. A neat arrangement of the twenty small planets circling its sun in the Avior system was marked out in the light brown earth.

"I was just drawing. I wasn't thinking," said Chekov sullenly. "Stop teasing me. It's not funny."

McCoy finished his scans. "Ensign, don't you know who I am?" he asked intently. He indicated towards Kirk who was still looking down at Chekov's drawing. "Don't you know who that is?"

Chekov looked from one to the other with disinterest. "No," he said bluntly.

"Do you know what your name is?"

"Yes. Chekov, Pavel Andreevich," he replied, slightly insulted. He turned to Fann. "Please, Colonel. Why are you sending me away? Don't let these people take me. I belong here in this unit. You need me."

Kirk walked back over, listening to the conversation with increasing concern. "Colonel Fann, what have you done to my navigator?" he asked, coming to a halt in front of the officer and folding his arms. "Why doesn't he remember us?"

"I'm not _your_ navigator!" interrupted Chekov aggressively, placing himself directly and provocatively in front of Kirk. "I don't remember you, because I've never met you before."

Fann raised a hand to silence the Russian. "That's enough, Chekov!" he snapped impatiently. He turned his cold eyes back to Kirk. "I can't tell you what's been done to him, Captain, because the way he is now is the same as when I first was given him for our troop, two weeks ago. He's become a valuable asset in such a short space of time. His talents are truly remarkable. We're a reconnaissance troop and he holds all the cartographic information for this entire region in his head. We haven't needed our old electronic maps and locating systems that would give away our position to the enemy. Chekov does it all for us. Silently. We can surprise the enemy's out posts, eradicate them and return back to the battalion and direct them where to launch their main assault in twice them time and with half the risk."

McCoy refused to be impressed. "I'm sure he makes a great tool in your war, Colonel, but he's a navigator, not a phaser. With us he'san explorer and a scientist. That's what he should be doing."

Fann gave a grim smile. "For a scientist and explorer, doctor, your navigator is as vicious and ruthless a fighter as I have ever come across. Morals don't seem to trouble his conscience."

"Then that's something else you've taken away from him," growled McCoy.

Kirk put a calming hand on the doctor's elbow. "OK, Bones. I don't think Fann has had anything to do with this," he said thoughtfully. "I think we should take Chekov back to the ship and discuss it with the Shonen authorities as soon as possible. Perhaps this… amnesia is just temporary."

McCoy looked disgruntled. "Amnesia? That remains to be seen. I'll need to start my tests when I get back to the lab. From what I've seen of this war so far, there's not much that either side wouldn't do to each other."

Kirk reached for his communicator. "We've got ambassadors from both Shonen and Strite coming aboard shortly. We'll need to be there to meet them. Like it or not, we seem to have become entangled in this war."

"I'm not going," snarled Chekov through gritted teeth, meeting Kirk's hazel eyes with a look of impudence the captain had never seen before. He turned back to Fann. "Colonel, you have to see this for what it is. They're working with Strite. You know they have spies trying to break up successful units. This Federation starship is being used against us."

"Chekov, I'm not going to argue with you," replied Fann wearily, shouldering his rifle. "I received my orders from Headquarters. Taln verified the code." He looked over to one of the soldiers stood at the back of the group and received a reluctant nod of confirmation. "You're to go with these men."He turned and began to walk back over to the tree trunk. The group of men who had gathered to watch gave Kirk and McCoy a last look before silently turning and following him.

"Why should I go? They're not my people," countered Chekov quietly, trying to keep his voice under control as the group moved away from him. Kirk could see him struggling against a mixture of hurt, anger and maybe just a bit of fear. "Perhaps Taln was mistaken. Get him to check again."

"Chekov, I already did!" snapped Fann, spinning round on his heel. "I don't have a choice and neither do you."

" I haven't done anything wrong! Why are you punishing me?" shouted Chekov.

Fann stopped and sighed, taking off his rifle and leaning heavily on it in front of him. "I know it's not fair and I don't want you to go. This is just some game played out at a level way above us. You've got to go. Those are your orders. Think about it. All we know is that you were rescued from a Strite prison. Where did you come from before that? You can't remember and we don't know. These Federation people claim you as their own, and they're probably right. You've got to go with them."

Chekov stood silently, his face showing the inner workings of unexpressed thoughts.

"Alright," he said eventually. "I'll go."

Fann nodded, placing an unexpectedly fatherly arm on his shoulder. "Say goodbye to the boys. They'll miss you too. You may never see them again." He patted him once and turned away.

Kirk and McCoy stood to one side as Chekov went over to the group of soldiers. They watched as muttered goodbyes were made, some of the men shaking his hand, others embracing him or slapping him on the back. When he was finished, he walked back over to Kirk and McCoy, refusing to look them in the eye, his jaw set in an obstinate clench.

"I don't think you'll be needing that," said Kirk quietly.

Chekov looked up reluctantly and followed the captain's gaze down to the phase rifle he was clutching. He laid it on the ground and dropped his head again.

Kirk sighed and flipped open his communicator. He hoped that whatever was wrong with his navigator was going to be a quick fix. Uhura had detected Klingon transmissions in the vicinity and, aside from the up and coming peace negotiation attempt with the two ambassadors, Kirk had no intention of hanging around Avior any longer than he had to.

"Mr Kyle, three to beam up".


	2. Chapter 2

"Just sit there, Ensign."

Chekov jumped up onto the bed where Dr McCoy had indicated with a swift spite of himself he had to admit that the sickbay had a pleasing antiseptic smell – a cleanliness that Chekov had not experienced in a long he looked deep inside himself he knew that there was something familiar about it. He felt as if memories were trying to creep up from the depths of his brain but, like a drowning man, were unable to break through to the surface. He needed more courage, he decided, and there was only one thing Shonen soldiers took to help them. While the doctor was looking at something on a computer screen, Chekov took the opportunity to surreptitiously pull out a small piece of _tassa_ from his jacket pocket. He broke a piece off and placed the narcotic in his mouth. The _tassa_ felt cool on his tongue and a relaxing warmth began to suffuse its way through him. The rustling package caught McCoy's attention. He turned round to see Chekov begin to chew on something with a languid droop of his jaw. Chekov straightened up and looked back at him. McCoy could see the provocation in the Russian's eyes.

"What's that?" McCoy asked with forced politeness.

"Tassa," replied Chekov, taking another piece out of the small crumpled packet and rolling it between his fingers. He locked eyes with the doctor – an insolent half smile played at his lips.

McCoy held up his hand, refusing to be intimidated.

"Can I have a look at it?"

"Why?"

"Because it might be harmful to you."

"It's not."

"Are you a doctor?"

Chekov's look turned to one of dangerous displeasure. He turned his head and dropped the paper into McCoy's outstretched hand. McCoy took it and walked calmly to a sampling machine, placing the tassa into its open compartment. He read through the results with pursed lips.

"As I suspected. A mild relaxant." He whisked the tassa out of the machine and placed it in a disposal tube, slamming the door shut with a slap of his hand."You need to stop taking this. It interferes with brain function with prolonged use".

Chekov gave him a malicious look but remained silent.

"Take off your jacket and shirt."

He was used to obeying orders. That was something he could do without thinking. Thinking would lead to confusion. He grudgingly unbuttoned the crumpled green jacket with his bloodstained fingers, suddenly feeling depressed at how dirty it and he were in comparison to the clean, pale blue sheet of the bed he laid it on. Dr McCoy turned round from setting up the instruments at the top of the bed and saw Chekov's shame at his clothes.

"Nurse!" he called out. "Could you bring Chekov's uniform and a disposal bag, please."

"Yes, doctor," a bright female voice called out from the room next door. A tall young woman with a wave of pale blonde hair and kind blue eyes appeared in the doorway with a small shiny bag.

"Hello, Ensign," she said as she walked in. As instructed earlier by Dr McCoy, she ignored the Russian's surly, suspicious eyes. "I haven't seen you in here for a while. Welcome back. I'm Nurse Chapel, in case you can't remember. Christine Chapel. "

Chekov dipped his head by way of a reluctant reply, watching her for any signs of falsehood, but saw none. Everyone knew him. Everybody recognised him, and yet he couldn't remember any of was frustrating and unsettling. He continued to pull the grey light undershirt over his head. As he did so he heard the nurse suck in her breath over her teeth as she placed his jacket in the bag.

"What has happened to _you_?" she asked quietly.

Chekov pulled the sleeves off his arms and gathered up the shirt in a ball before handing it to the nurse. He steeled himself before looking down at the depressing sight. The left side of his body was lacerated with fresh scar tissue. His whole body was covered in bruises and cuts.

"We were caught in an ambush. There was an explosion," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The whole day had been a nightmare. Attacked in a ravine, penned in between the rock face and the broiling river, it had been a miracle any of them had got out alive. Chekov had been pulled out of the burning wreckage of their transport and taken straight to the nearest field hospital. The work done on him had been minimal. He had been patched up and sent back to the lines to continue the fight within a couple of days.

Dr McCoy walked round to stand next to Christine. He shook his head.

"Well, I haven't seen a hatchet job like that in a while." He placed his hand on the young man's shoulder and felt him flinch. "But don't worry. We'll get you cleaned up and we'll soon have you back to your baby-smooth 's nothing we can't fix. Lie back and let me do the work. Nurse, can you fetch the plasti-skin kit please."

Christine retreated out of the room, as Dr McCoy ran a sensor over his patient. Its quiet high-pitched warble indicated that data was being gathered and relayed. Chekov lay on his back and stared at the white ceiling, swallowing hard. He listened to the sound of his heartbeat over one of the monitors. It was beating fast, he realised. He didn't want them to know he was afraid. McCoy, however, had already sensed his tension.

"I suppose you don't remember, but you end up in my sickbay quite a lot," he said jovially by way of breaking the silence.

Chekov scratched his nose, unable to think of a response. He could feel a battle going on inside his head. All reason told him that there was something sinister about this ship. Nothing in his memories and experiences on Avior pointed to him ever being a member of its crew. He was a soldier for the Shonen army and his loyalties lay there and nowhere else. He had to get back and join the fight. And yet somewhere deep inside him was a feeling – nothing more –that everything about this ship was alright. Should he trust such contrasting feelings over evidence? And what evidence did he have? He had two weeks fighting a war and before that only hearsay and relentless nightmares.

"Oh yes. If there's something kicking off on board this ship then I usually find you at the centre of it." McCoy turned to the instruments at the head of the bed and continued: "Interspatial madness – you get it first. Ageing sickness – you're the only one that doesn't get it. Fights with Klingons, accidents, hockey injuries... trouble is attracted to you like a magnet, son. You keep me in a job..." He trailed off. Something in the data caught his attention.

"I don't remember," offered Chekov acerbically, turning his head round to see what the doctor was looking at.

"Like how you got three broken ribs and both arms broken?"

Chekov stared back up at the ceiling and shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned but fighting off a sudden hollow feeling. "Like I said, I was caught in an explosion."

"No. These injuries are over a month old. And they've been set professionally. If in a hurry," countered McCoy.

Chekov turned away angrily, hugging the pillow without really meaning to. "They told me I came from a Strite prison. I have dreams... nightmares... they're stupid, nothing. If the Stritans broke my arms in prison, it wouldn't surprise me. That's not the worst that they do."

"From what I've seen of Stritan and Shonen medical technology, this is not in their league," muttered McCoy, downloading the information to a datapad. "I think I'll get Spock to check these over."

A deep shudder suddenly overcame Chekov. "I'm cold. Can't I have a shirt?"

"We're going to patch you up first. Here's a blanket."

Chekov took the sheet in silence, barely able to glance up as Nurse Chapel came back into the room with her repair kit. Something inside him was afraid that if he did he would find something familiar to latch on to and his whole life and certainties about the war would come crashing down.

McCoy looked down at the young man. He could see he was avoiding his eyes. When he did look into them they looked malevolent. Who had put so much hatred into him, he wondered? The features were the same – the same straight nose and dark brown eyes under long eyelashes. Yet the scowl that was fixed on his forehead was more than serious – it was deeply troubled.

Chekov opened his eyes and found the craggy face of Dr McCoy looming into view over him.

"I'm going to take a blood sample, Ensign. You may feel a tingling sensation, but it won't hurt."

"That's what you always say," replied Chekov automatically. Where did that come from? He hadn't meant to say it. It had just fallen out without him realising. Like drawing the stars in the dry earth on Shonen. He always seemed to do things that he couldn't explain.

Dr McCoy noticed it too and hesitated slightly, exchanging a glance with Chapel before he pressed the sampling instrument against Chekov's shoulder.

"That sounds more like the Ensign Chekov I know," he said encouragingly. "Try to relax. I'm going to run a series of full physiological tests. It may take a while. Nurse Chapel here is going to start your skin repair.

"Yes, Sir."

"Don't call me 'sir'. I only pull rank when _I_ want to."

Chekov smiled slightly and shut his eyes. There might be a lot didn't know but he felt he might get to like this doctor. He was quirky and unconventional. He was starting to feel he could trust him. He continued to listen to his heartbeat as it steadied and slowed to an almost relaxed rate. The bed was comfortable. The skin repair procedure was warm and tingling. He could feel himself start to drift off.

"What did you just say?"

Chekov opened his eyes and found the doctor's intense blue eyes frowning down at him again. He sat up on his elbows. "Nothing. I didn't say anything. At least... I don't know. I must have started to fall asleep."

Chapel pushed him gently back down onto the bed. "I distinctly heard you say 'they've killed Russell'. Who's Russell?" she asked.

The same hollow feeling from before overcame him. "I don't know. I don't know who Russell is." He felt confused. He sat up fully. Again he could feel the drowning memories clutching at his consciousness.

"I'm sure she was one of the team that was sent with you..." said Chapel, throwing the doctor a quizzical look.

McCoy went over to a computer on a desk by the wall. "Computer, list the navigation and cartography team sent to Avior, stardate 556221".

"Working," intoned the computer. "Team Leader Lieutenant Doeblin, Dieter Franz, pilot and geographical cartography specialist. Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreevitch, Chief Navigator. Ensign Russell, Keeta, cartographic data analyst." The faces of the team flashed up with their medical records.

"There," said McCoy, turning back to Chekov to gauge his reaction. "She was on your team. She went with you in the shuttle to Avior. What happened to her and Doeblin?"

Chekov shook his head. "I don't know," he said, starting to feel angry again.

"Who killed her?" McCoy bit out the words, hoping a change in tone might bring more information out of him.

"I don't know."

"You must know – you were there."

"I said I don't know," Chekov spat viciously. "Stop asking me. You're trying to confuse me."

He clutched at his head, forcing down the feelings and emotions that welled up at the name of Russell and Doeblin. Horror, revulsion, fear and desperation clawed at his throat. He pushed Chapel and her repair kit aside and threw himself off the bed, rounding on the doctor.

"Stop it. You're working for Strite. You're trying to get information out of me. It won't work. I'm not going to co-operate. I'd rather die. What are you trying to do to me here? Run tests? Extract information?" Blind anger pushed him to look for an escape route. He cast his eyes around quickly, looking for a weapon of some sorts. "Send me back to Shonen. Now!"

McCoy held up his hands. He could see what was going through the young man's mind. He could see him about to lunge forward for the laser scalpels on the table. He placed himself between Chekov and his bench of medical tools. He didn't want him to get his hands on the equipment. He would probably do more harm to himself than to his medical team.

"Ok, Ensign, calm down. I'm sure this must all seem very confusing to you, but you must trust us. The Nurse and I are here to help you. That's all. Let us do our job medically and the Captain will figure out what has happened to you. Please sit down."

Chekov searched their eyes again for signs of duplicity, but still could find none. He realised he was breathing hard. but what could he do? He was on a starship high above the planet. There was no way off. He was their prisoner. Perhaps the best thing to do, he reasoned, was to bide his time.

"What seems to be the problem, Bones?"

Chekov spun round to see the captain enter the room. The man had a calm authority about him that Chekov recognised in all the best military leaders on Avior. He felt the man's keen hazel eyes take in the room and assess the situation. He missed nothing.

"The Ensign was undergoing a full medical examination. There are some areas that are of concern to me," replied McCoy neutrally. "We were in the middle of a skin repair procedure, however, I think it's more important that he gets some rest now. He can stay here or he can go to his quarters. We can continue tomorrow."

Kirk nodded in silent understanding and stepped over to a communicator on the wall and thumbed it on. "Chief Bakary. Send up a security guard to escort Ensign Chekov back to his quarters."

"Aye, sir," a tinny voice came back.

"Here, put this on," said Chapel, handing Chekov a black undershirt. "It's from your quarters. It will fit."

Chekov glared and snatched it off her, pulling it ungratefully over his cold shoulders as the security guard walked in.

"Twenty four hour guard," Kirk murmured to the crewman as he escorted Chekov out of the room.

He turned to McCoy, frowning. "So, what do you think then?"

"I think that boy has had his brains scrambled by someone down on that planet but why they needed him to be that way – I have no idea. He bucks like a mule," McCoy said ruefully. "He's not got the calmest temper at the best of times. Now it's like a hair-trigger. Added to that he's got some strange injuries that have been repaired using molecular sequencing. That's technology that is way beyond anything they have on Avior at present. It just doesn't add up."

"Next steps?"

"I'll need to run a lot more tests before I can figure out how we can get him back to his normal self."

Kirk nodded. He needed his chief navigator back at his post as soon as possible but he knew from experience that mental recovery could be a painful and difficult process. He recalled Miramanee, the native girl whom he had married after he had had his memory accidentally wiped by a planetary defence system. For a while his whole life had changed. He rarely admitted, even to himself, how hard it had been to overcome his experiences there.

"Do what you can, Bones," he said gruffly. "As soon as you have any results, let me know. I need to go and brush up on Avior history." He moved to leave the room but turned round. "Fancy joining me later for a drink?"

McCoy's eyes lit up. "I think I will. Let me finish up here and hand over to M'Benga. I'll catch you up."

Kirk nodded and headed back out of sickbay. He had hoped that Chekov's return would have helped him to find out what had happened to the crew of the shuttle. Instead it had raised more questions and he found himself still no nearer to figuring out who had taken them or why.


	3. Chapter 3

The dream began as it always began. He dreamt he was in a shuttle. Space stretched out before him like a velvet blanket and in the middle, still far off, twenty small bright planets circled a small ordinary sun. Pulsars flashed like lighthouses on his sensors, guiding him to his destination. He interlocked his fingers and stretched out his arms in front of him to release the tension in his shoulders. They had been waiting for clearance to enter Avior space for what seemed like an age. Although they were still a good hour away from the planet it would have been reassuring to have received word by now. He tried to stifle a yawn and checked his console for anything to pique his interest. It blinked back at him without showing anything unusual. He could hear Lieutenant Doeblin at the rear of the craft checking through his mapping equipment. He was whistling snatches of a tune in time with the beeping of a small test buzzer. Just behind him sat Keeta Russell. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her sidle up and sit in the pilot's seat next to him. She started to press some of the navigational buttons, deliberately interfering with his data. He looked up briefly to meet her narrowed steely blue eyes and instantly regretted his mistake. It was just the impetus she needed to initiate a conversation.

"Pavel?"

He didn't want to talk to her. Keeta was his former girlfriend Sandi's best friend. It seemed that almost everyone on the crew knew that she harboured a deep disdain for him. He had no idea what he had done to deserve her contempt. He had always tried to be polite to her, but no matter how hard he tried, she always bit back at him. In the end he had given up and generally tried to avoid her. He had found out recently that she had expressed a loud and low opinion of him very publically in the mess hall to an assembled group of crewmembers. Even now her statement of his name was confrontational.

"Hmmm?" Maybe, he reasoned, if he looked busy enough, she'd leave him alone.

"You know Sandi Nee?"

Of course he knew her. The question was rhetorical, but he decided to set the tone.

"Yes?" he asked through gritted teeth, knowing where the conversation would inevitably lead. He was annoyed with himself for letting her get to him. He had more important things to worry about – like mapping the mission to Avior. He studied his console more intently than he needed to, wishing Sulu or Uhura were there to back him up and break the strained atmosphere. He wished Keeta would just leave him alone. As he scrutinized the data he suddenly noticed a small fluctuation registering in the solar wind from Avior. As if an invisible feather had floated through dust, a small vortex seemed to spontaneously form and dissipate. It barely registered in the background noise, but it had definitely been there. He stared at the graph and the data scrolling down in front of him. He didn't know whether to be curious or worried. He racked his brains for an idea of what it might be but nothing came to mind. His instinct was to disregard it, and yet...

"So why did you break up with Sandi?" Keeta's voice came crashing though his concentration like an axe. "She was devastated, you know. You used her, didn't you? It's all you ever do."

Chekov tore his eyes away from the evaporating data and looked at her askance. She was always forthright with her questioning and today was going to be no exception.

"I don't see that it's any of your business," he growled. "We're on duty. I don't think this is the time or the place for a discussion like this. Have you made contact with Avior yet?"

He took a deep breath and turned back to examine the data again. He needed to analyse it more deeply if he was going to make the decision to disregard it. Keeta was starting to get on his nerves. He didn't want to be rude but he could feel his anger starting to rise.

"No. My hails aren't getting through for some reason. Probably atmospheric conditions on the planet. I'll give it a while. There's nothing out there" she said casually, pointing to the viewscreen. "There's nothing going on and we're not there yet, so now is as good a time as any."

Chekov didn't reply. With a certain amount of frustration, Keeta could see that his attention was taken elsewhere. _That's just typical of him_ , she thought to herself. _There's nothing out there, yet he keeps his head down and pretends he's busy just to avoid a conversation._ She wasn't sure why she felt the need to provoke him. She contemplated him as he worked. He made it look easy. They had been at the Academy in the same year and everyone had known he was destined to be the best at something. Turned out that it was navigation but it could just as easily have been cosmology or any other '-ology'. Rumour had it that three starships had requested him before he had graduated but that Kirk had pulled rank as the Flagship Captain to get him a posting on the _Enterprise_. She supposed that she secretly wished that she had been skilled enough for Starfleet captains to vie over her. But she was just an analyst and that didn't seem to count for much. She'd only ended up on the _Enterprise_ because another ensign had fallen ill just before launch.

"So why did you break it off with Sandi?" she asked, again, trying not to sound as aggressive as previously to see if that would make him rise to the bait.

Chekov still refused to look up. "I didn't," he replied tersely at last. The data was refusing to give out any more clues as to its origin. That was odd.

"Oh..." Keeta sounded surprised. "She told me –"

"That if I'm not working, I'm drinking and if I'm not drinking I'm sleeping with other girls. Is that what she told you?" snapped Chekov, finally losing patience with her. "Sandi is a jealous, paranoid person and she did me a favour by breaking up. Now please leave me alone. I need to concentrate."

"Well yes," Keeta started. "She said –".

" _Zamolchi_!"

Chekov suddenly put up his hand to silence her. She didn't know what the word meant but the tone of it stopped her in tracks. He was so riveted to the console in front of him he hadn't even considered if she would understand him or not.

Something was definitely not right. Another vortex had flickered and faded as quickly as the last. It was almost as if... He switched all the sensors onto the location. The power drain to non-essential systems across the shuttle brought a cry of indignation from Doeblin from the rear of the craft. He stuck his cropped blond head through the doorway.

"Ensign, what are you doing? You just crashed my program. I was nearly finished."

"I'm sorry, sir," Chekov turned in his seat, "but I'm sure there's something out there."

Now that he had more sensor power the readings were stronger and more frequent, if still very faint.

"This data is like nothing I've seen before. It's chaotic. Almost too chaotic."

Doeblin sighed and pinched the ridge of his nose in mild annoyance, leaning on the door jamb.

"How can they be _too_ chaotic, Mr Chekov? We live in a universe inclined to entropy. Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" He pointed at the stars in front of them. "See for yourself. There's nothing out there. We're nowhere near Romulan or Klingon space. All that Bridge time has made you jittery."

 _Aye, sir. And with good reason,_ thought Chekov grimly. If his suspicions were correct then they were in a lot more trouble than he cared to think about.

"I know I'm not certain, sir," he said in a conceding tone. "Just let me send out one last batch of test signals and I'll be done."

Doeblin gave a resigned look and waved his hand towards Chekov's console.

"Alright, Ensign. You know best. Just don't take too long. We need to be at Avior in one hour."

Chekov nodded and stretched out his hand to punch the button to transmit his data. Thinking back, he wasn't sure if his finger actually made contact with the switch. Almost simultaneously he felt and heard a huge bone-shaking explosion rip through the ship. He thought for one awful moment that he could hear the hiss of venting air and fully expected the deathly kiss of space to tear through him. He clung to his console, momentarily stunned by the noise. With his ear ringing he forced his attention back to the data streaming across his board. It didn't look good. In fact, it was starting to get worse. He double checked the figures in his head. They were correct. The impulse engines had gone off-line. At least there was something he could do about that. He fired them up. They sputtered into life with a roar of plasma.

" _Nyet_ ," he said to himself. " _nyet, nyet, nyet_ …"

Doeblin staggered across the cockpit and pulled Keeta off the helm. "What is it?" he asked abruptly, taking his seat. He fought to stabilize the thrusters. Their labouring whine vibrated shrilly through the shuttle.

"We're losing shields."

"What?"

"We're at thirty percent. They've disrupted the modulation program."

"Shut it down. Reboot it!"

"I've tried and I can't. The processors are dead."

"Back-ups? Work-arounds?"

"None that we have time for, sir. If we take another hit – ".

A violent blast struck the ship. Chekov was thrown off his seat. He hit the back of his head on the floor so hard it made his teeth hurt. The ship was momentarily plunged into silence and darkness before the back-up systems kicked in with a mechanical groan and the dull emergency lights snapped on. The cockpit started to fill with smoke. Alarms and warnings repeated their monotonous mantras around him. Only half their meaning filtered through to his stunned brain: _overload...exceeded...beyond tolerance...critical..._ In the disorienting blur of flashing lights he lifted his head. He could see Keeta lying on the floor next to him.

"This is Doeblin calling _Enterprise_. Mayday. We are under attack. Repeat: we are under attack. Please respond."

He was relieved to hear Doeblin desperately trying to contact the ship, but he knew it was a futile gesture. The _Enterprise_ was several hours away. There was no way any meaningful aid was going to come their way soon. Who _were_ their attackers, he wondered?

He tried to sit up. Suddenly, over the hiss of extinguishers and small secondary explosions he heard the whine of a transporter beam. It wasn't a familiar one. Choking on the thick acrid smoke that burnt his lungs he watched four large figures materialise in front of him. He couldn't see their faces – they were covered by breathing equipment and anti-flash visors. They seemed humanoid and their silver uniforms flashed blood red in the emergency lighting. Without speaking, one of the aliens stepped forward. He looked down at him and, raising his arm, threw something on the floor. The object rolled quickly across the deck with a metallic rattle.

"Ensign! Cover your eyes!" shouted Doeblin. Too late, Chekov realised why the aliens were wearing visors. He threw his arm across his face as the stun grenade exploded next to him a burst of white static across his overloaded retinas. He fell back to the floor unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

Uhura took a deep breath and pressed the door chime to Chekov's quarters. She felt Sulu squeeze her elbow in encouragement. She gave him the briefest of grateful looks before squaring her shoulders and nodding a hint of tension out of her neck. She smoothed down her colourful flowing African dress as she waited for what seemed like an eternity for the door to open. Dr McCoy had briefed them at the end of their shift on their friend's condition but she still wasn't sure what sort of a person she would find beyond the door. Anyone but the easy-going and light-hearted navigator she knew so well was going to be a struggle to come to terms with. Lt Mathews, who had been on guard duty outside his door for most of the night, had reported that everything had been quiet. She hoped that, however long the recovery might take, it would start here.

After what was in reality only a few seconds, the door slid open. Uhura was momentarily nonplussed. The changes in Chekov's character that the doctor had described had subconsciously prepared her for someone that wasn't the person she felt she would fundamentally recognise. However, it was the familiar Chekov she had said goodbye to two months earlier who stood physically in the doorway in his bare feet in loose-fitting standard issue light blue pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He ran a hand through his thick tousled dark hair and raised his heavy eyes to the newcomers. He looked like he had just woken up. He looked suspiciously from Sulu to Uhura, leaning against the door jamb like it was the only thing keeping him from falling down.

"Yes?" he asked with surly indifference, a slight slur to his voice.

Uhura shot Sulu a look of concern but she was unable to catch his eye. The helmsman was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and deep concern. As the Captain had reported, the worst thing was the complete lack of recognition in their friend's face. Instead of breaking out into his habitual boyish grin, Chekov looked them up and down, his eyes lingering on Uhura for a length of time that could only suggest improper thoughts. She chose to ignore his unpleasant gaze and immediately fell back on her communications training. In tense circumstances it kicked in like an automatic reaction. She softened her expression and relaxed her stance a little.

"May we come in?" she asked gently but firmly with a subtle gesture towards the cabin behind him. "Because we think we might be able to help you. We may be able to explain what's happened to you and why you're here. Or at least partly explain."

Chekov's tired eyes narrowed to black impenetrable slits. "Who are you?"

It was the question Sulu had been dreading. He hated the distrust in the young man's voice.

"We're your friends," he said simply. It felt strange having to express that fact to someone they had both come to know so well after the past year – someone who they trusted their lives to on a daily basis.

Chekov folded his arms defensively. Uhura noticed the deep blue bruises on his arms. Dr McCoy had told them that he had come straight from the fighting on Avior. If these were the outward signs, then what were the inward wounds, she wondered.

"Well, you may as well come in. I don't suppose I have a choice," Chekov muttered angrily. "You've had a guard on me all night. If I say no I expect you'll only find a way to force me. You're no better than the Stritans."

He turned his back on them and walked back into the room. Sulu and Uhura exchanged glances and followed him in, Sulu placing a comforting hand on Uhura's back as the door closed behind them. He watched as Chekov went over to a small cupboard next to his desk on which sat a set of six small cut-crystal shot glasses and an open bottle of vodka. Quarter of the liquid was gone and one of the glasses was full. He picked up the full glass and knocked back the liquid with a defiant stare at Sulu's raised eyebrows. He put the glass back down on top of the cupboard with a casual air and picked up the bottle, raising it to examine its viscous contents at eye level.

"I don't know what this is," he said smoothly, turning the bottle round. "But it's very good. We don't have anything like this on Avior."

Sulu moved over to him and pushed the glass to one side.

"It's still morning. Don't you think it's a little early to be drinking vodka? Even for you."

Chekov locked eyes with him, his lips showing the hint of a sneer, while he picked up another glass and splashed the clear liquid into it. From the slight clumsiness of the movement, he could tell that this wasn't the first glass he had had that morning.

"I'm a soldier." He raised the glass to his lips. "I'll enjoy myself whenever I can."

Sulu plucked the glass from between his fingers and put it gently back down on the cupboard top.

"I think that's enough enjoyment for now."

Sulu was relieved when he did not protest but merely glared back at him spitefully. He thought for one moment he might lash out at him but he saw his expression change and accept a temporary defeat. The Russian gave a slight snort as the sneer reappeared on his face.

"So how do you enjoy yourself? Are there any girls?"

"None for you," replied Sulu calmly.

Chekov looked Sulu up and down as if trying to assess his resolve. He turned silently and threw himself down onto his bed, rolling onto his back and placing his arms behind his head.

"I know I'm your prisoner and this is going to be an interrogation," he said icily, staring up at the ceiling. "So just get on with it. But I will tell you now – I won't do anything to betray Shonen and my people."

"This isn't an interrogation," said Uhura kindly, taking a seat at his desk and pushing aside a pile of starcharts so that she could rest her arm on the surface. As usual it was littered with data pads and notes hand-written in Chekov's spidery Cyrillic. He didn't seem to have touched much since he had been in here. She wondered whether it meant anything to him any longer. She remembered that she herself had had to be completely re-educated after her mind had been wiped by the Nomad probe. For her, memories had only had to be recovered. What if Chekov's had been replaced? What if they might never return? She didn't much like the young man lying on the bed in front of her. He was as dangerous as a coiled snake, she felt.

"So who are you then?" asked Chekov, closing his eyes.

"I'm Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, Chief Communications officer and this is Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, Chief Helmsman. As I said, we're your friends. We want you to remember who you are."

"And who am I?"

"Well, you're Ensign Pavel Chekov, Chief Navigator on this ship."

Chekov opened his eyes at Uhura's words and turned his head to face the window. He watched the stars slip by like soft streaks of gold and silver. Snatches of half forgotten dreams fought for his attention but faded like ghosts before he could latch on to any of them. He was sure he had seen these people before in his dreams. How could these people be both here and in his dreams? What plot were they playing out? Was it mind control? Were they manipulating him? Why? Since he had been on this ship he had felt there were times when reality was slipping away from him. He had to be strong.

"I am a soldier in the Shonen Republican Army. I've been fighting in the mountains and in the cities of Avior. I've lived in dug-outs and ruined buildings. I've witnessed the suffering of our people and I've seen my friends killed. I hope I've inflicted as much pain on our enemy as I have had to endure," he said harshly.

"And before that?" asked Sulu. "Remember, you were only found two weeks ago."

"Before that I was prisoner of Strite," he replied firmly, but he knew it was as much to convince himself in the absence of certainty. "I was rescued from there. They told me."

"And what were you before you were a prisoner of Strite?" Sulu asked, perching on the edge of the desk next to Uhura. "Can you remember that?"

Chekov frowned. "I... a soldier, I suppose," he faltered. He sat up cross-legged, suddenly angry with himself for doubting what he thought he knew. "I was a soldier. I have always been a soldier. But it doesn't matter about my past. My present is about fighting for the Shonen cause."

Uhura was dismayed at his attitude. She couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "Aren't you sick of all that killing?" she asked.

Chekov's look was almost blank. "Strite must be defeated at all costs. Our lands must be returned. All wrongs must be avenged."

Uhura shook her head sadly. "That's just propaganda, Pasha. You knew nothing about what was happening on Avior two months ago. None of us did. You're not a soldier. You're an officer on this ship. You're a scientist. Even our Chief Science Officer respects you enough to let him do his work when he isn't there. You're respected for who you are and what you can do. You have friends and talents and a future ahead of you that involves more than just killing people, which is all you seem capable of now. You were never meant to become a pawn in someone else's war. Look around you." She cast her arm into the room. "This is your cabin. You know it is. Look at the things you've collected and been given by other cultures." She got up and picked up a type of sextant that a captain on Circinus had given him as a thank you for navigating their stranded vessel through a nebula and back to their homeworld. "You were so honoured to receive this. You said it was one of the most meaningful presents you'd been given. Why would we bother to go to such lengths to try to fool you? Did anyone else on Shonen speak the same language as you? Could any of them read the same alphabet as you? You're a Russian. You're Terran, like we are. That can't be made up."

For all the time that he could remember being on Avior he knew that he was different. He sounded different and looked different, and yet his troop had taken him in as one of their own. There had been no mistaking their comradeship and sense of shared purpose. But here were also more people who wanted to treat him as their friend and brother. He felt he was being pulled in two. He was fighting desperately against feelings of familiarity but when he tried to push those feelings further it was as if an iron door slammed shut in his face. He couldn't explain it. It made him afraid and angry.

"I only know what I know. I must fight for Shonen. I must do everything in my power to secure its future and see Strite defeated. I'm lucky – I'm young. I can give the rest of my life to the Cause."

Uhura did not like the obsessive tone in his voice. He spoke his words as if someone else had put them there.

"The Chekov I know may be young, but he often has an old head on his shoulders. He has an agile mind that is ruled by reason, not bigotry and self-delusion," she said calmly. "He likes dancing and girls and hates cleaning inspections and Andorian epic poetry."

"I'm sure he's wonderful," he replied sarcastically.

This woman – Uhura – her sultry black eyes seemed to lure him back towards his dreams. He had seen her occasionally in them. Who was she? He felt as if he knew her. She was intelligent and kind. He watched her sigh and put down the sextant before picking up a datapad. She turned it on and scrolled quickly through various pictures. She stopped at one and threw the pad down onto the bed in front of him. He picked it up. The picture was of a group of people in uniforms just like the ones his visitors were wearing. The doctor, nurse and captain from sickbay were there, his two visitors were there, a man with dark brown hair and twinkling eyes and a man with pointed ears and green skin were also among the group along with several others. With the exception of the green man they were all smiling and raising glasses.

"My birthday," he whispered spontaneously, staring at the picture. "I was twenty one."

Something about the group was so familiar. A mixture of joy and sadness overcame him but without him realising why. Again an iron door slammed shut inside his mind. He jerked his head up furiously at Uhura. "How have you done this? You're messing with my memories. I've never seen them before and yet I know their names. What are you doing to me?"

This wasn't quite the response she had expected. She thought she had been making progress. "Nothing. We're not doing anything except trying to help you remember," she said soothingly, attempting to placate his rising temper.

Chekov slammed the datapad down on the bed and leapt up with a snarl, stalking over to Uhura.

"Your captain is working with Strite," he spat, standing over her. "You want what I know about our troop movements and weapons placements. I'll never tell you. If you think a cosy chat in someone's quarters is going to get it out of me, you're much mistaken."

Sulu stood, worried by his sudden aggressive attitude, and placed a hand on his chest. It wasn't what he was used to and, knowing his recent violent past, he wasn't sure where it was leading. "That's enough, Pasha. Calm down. This isn't getting us anywhere."

Chekov knocked his hand aside."Don't touch me," he said viciously. "If you think I'm some weak and feeble-minded boy, you're much mistaken. I refuse to be a part of this charade."

Sulu made an exasperated noise and turned to Uhura. "He always was obstinate but I never knew he could be this bad!"

"Stop talking as if you know me," said Chekov disdainfully, clenching his fists and squaring up to the helmsman.

Sulu turned to face him. "Believe me, right now I wish I didn't. I want my colleague back – I want my friend back and at the moment you are a poor substitute."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I could put you over my knee and give you a good spanking, if that's what you want."

"Try it and I'll kill you."

"I'd like to see you try."

Uhura heard the threat in Sulu's voice. He was normally so calm and relaxed but any anger in his voice was a warning sign of imminent trouble. Sulu could be pushed and pushed but when he went, he meant business. She stood up quickly beside him, fearing they would come to blows.

"Alright... alright." She splayed her hands and stood between the two men. Her calming, smooth voice immediately defused the brittle atmosphere. She turned to Chekov. "If we can't convince you ourselves, then maybe you need to hear it from the Shonen authorities."

"What do you mean?" asked Chekov roughly. He spun away and stalked over to the window, turning his back on them.

"I mean that after Dr McCoy has finished his tests today the Captain has ordered that you and we attend a formal dinner tonight on Avior for the Shonen and Stritan Ambassadors."

"I'm not going," came Chekov's immediate obstinate reply.

"Yes, you are." Sulu could tell from the set of his shoulders how tense he was.

"Political prisoners cannot be forced to act for their captors," muttered Chekov, staring out at the stars.

"You're not a prisoner, Pasha," said Uhura, walking over to stand next to him. "It's just a dinner. The Captain is hoping that the ambassadors will shed some light on your disappearance and with you there to hear it, it should help your recovery."

"The Stritans tried to kill me in prison. Why would I want to dine with murderers?" he hissed, throwing her fleeting glance.

"Pasha, I don't know enough about Avior's politics to know who's right and who's wrong. All I can see is that this war is tearing a planet apart and that the Federation is the best opportunity for hope and a resolution that these people have had in decades. It seems to me that you have been made to represent an outdated and unhelpful view that cannot have a place in any future that this planet has. Someone has filled you with lies and hatred at the expense of your own history and at the expense of your own future. I don't know why someone would do that to a member of this crew, but we are all determined to find out."

Images from his dreams crowded into his mind. The shuttle, explosions, a young woman screaming, running down a dark corridor, a flashing silver ring on a gnarled finger. He didn't know which was real any longer – his dream or his reality. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. He pushed himself away from the window and sank down onto the bed in silence, resting his elbows on his knees and putting his head in his hands.

"Do what you want then," he murmured apathetically, closing his eyes. " _Mnye nadoyelo_."

Uhura moved over to him and sat down next to him, motioning Sulu to stand back as he stepped forward, suspicious of Chekov's every move.

Uhura put her shoulder against his. "When the _Enterprise_ reached your shuttle's last know location we found readings of weapons fire. The data was too badly degraded for Spock to indentify who had caused it – we only know that it wasn't Federation or anything that Avior could produce. All your telemetry had been wiped. Is there anything you remember that might help us? Anything at all?"

After a long pause he looked up at her, his eyes intense and dark. He wasn't sure if he should divulge the information in case it would make him appear weak. "I have dreams," he whispered eventually. "Sometimes you are in them and him." He motioned with his head towards Sulu. "And others on this ship. How can that be? I never dream of the fighting or the war, or the things I've done on Avior, and I've done some terrible things... I only dream about the shuttle and the screaming girl. It doesn't make sense to me."

Uhura took his hand and squeezed it gently. Her touch initiated a flood of feelings that he hadn't experienced in what felt like a very long time – warmth, friendship, complete trust. It was like an electric charge.

"Who fired on your shuttle, Pasha?"

He dropped his head, frustrated. "I don't know. In my dreams they board our ship but their faces are always hidden."

The brief wail of his cabin's communicator cut through the sudden silence. Nurse Chapel's voice sounded across the room.

"Ensign Chekov, please report to sickbay."

Sulu walked over and thumbed it on. "Sulu here. I'll bring him over." He turned back to Chekov. "Come on," he said kindly. "I'm sorry about what I said before. It's not your fault. Let Dr McCoy finish his tests and maybe he can find out a bit more about what went on. He'll let you look through our ship's computer. You can find out all about your family, your past, this ship, who we are... anything you want. We won't hide it from you. We just want you to get better."

He held out a hand which, after a moment's hesitation, Chekov took gratefully. He felt the strength he knew he had felt a hundred times before. He let himself be hauled off the bed and onto his feet. He looked down at his pyjamas.

"I can't go like this," he muttered, suddenly embarrassed.

"Oh, we can help you find your uniform," said Uhura, turning to a wardrobe door.

Chekov put out his hand. "No, it's ok. I think I know where to find everything."

"OK. We'll wait for you outside."

Uhura turned to Sulu as soon as the door shut behind them in the corridor.

"He's in there somewhere," she said. "I'm sure of it."

Sulu nodded. "Hopefully the ambassadors will give us some answers and Doctor McCoy can find the cure."


	5. Chapter 5

"Chekov! Please wake up. Oh, come on, Chekov!"

Chekov found himself being shaken back into the dream by the arm. He opened his eyes and found Keeta kneeling over him. Her look was scared. He pushed her away and sat up painfully, clutching the back of his head.

" _Oi, golova bolit!"_ he groaned, rubbing the spot where his head had collided with the deck.

"What? We don't have a universal translator. What are you saying?" said Keeta, sitting back on her heels, alarmed

"It doesn't matter," he murmured. His head was pounding from the effects of the stun grenade.

"Are you injured?"Keeta's voice sounded thin.

"No, I'm fine."

He looked around the room. They were in a cell. It was large and damp with thick stone walls and a small window that let in a feeble amount of light high above them. A cold draught was blowing in from somewhere bringing a smell of mould and decay. Keeta saw him shiver. She scrambled to her feet and went to a corner of the cell and picked up a couple of rough greenish brown, stinking blankets from a heap.

"Here," she said, throwing one of the blankets towards him. "They might keep us warm."

Chekov caught it, nodding in thanks, giving it a quick scan for insects or worse. He wasn't particularly squeamish, but always felt that alien bugs were inevitably going to be worse than anything Earth had to offer. He pulled the cloth around his shoulders. It was little more than a rag but at least it kept away the chill.

Keeta sat down at a distance from him, resting her back against the wall and placing the blanket over her knees. She curled up, trying to expose as little of her body to the cold as she could. She silently cursed her short-skirted uniform. What she wouldn't have done for a thick pair of trousers, no matter how unfashionable.

"They took Doeblin," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. The sound of his shouts had woken her up from her unconsciousness. She couldn't tell who their captors were. They were humanoid – maybe even from Avior – but they had kept their faces hidden behind heavy cloaks and hoods. They had dragged him out of the cell, slamming the heavy metal door and locking it behind them. Doeblin had fought them, but there had been too many of them. She wanted to be strong. She wanted all of this to be a terrible misunderstanding and that Doeblin would soon be returned and they would be set free.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" she asked apprehensively.

Chekov gave a tense and silent shrug. He had no words of comfort to offer her. From the little experience he had of such situations either the _Enterprise_ would get them out or they would have to find a way out themselves.

"Do you think we're on Avior?" asked Keeta. Even though she was whispering, her voice seemed to echo around the cell.

"It's likely. There were no other Class M planets near our last location." Chekov stood up stiffly, clutching the blanket around him with one hand. He stepped back and craned his neck to try to get a better view out of the small window. It looked like a dull afternoon in the sky. "Once it's night and if we can see the stars then I might be able to tell."

"You can tell just from looking at the stars? Have you memorised them in 3D or something?" she said incredulously.

"Yes, of course I have. It _is_ my job, Keeta. Why do you think I get taken on away missions?" he replied tersely. He instantly regretted his tone. His fear was turning into anxiety.

"Okay, I was just asking," she snapped back at him. "You don't have to tell me how brilliant you are. Everyone knows you are Spock's star student."

"I work as hard as I can. It's a privilege to work with Mr Spock," he growled.

"Then with all that hard work it's a wonder you have time for all that sleeping around you do," she hit back sarcastically. "You're not as wonderful as you think you are."

He gave her an irritated look and threw himself down in the opposite corner to her. She was right: he wasn't as fantastic as he thought he was. If he were, he'd be like Kirk, and he'd have thought of a way out by now. He'd at least have some kind of a plan. He picked up a small shard of stone on the floor next to him and began to scratch out a pattern to take his mind off their predicament: the twenty small planets around the sun of Avior.

Keeta immediately felt ashamed. She was trying to goad him for no reason. It wasn't his fault. She was frightened. There was more to her attitude, but she didn't want to admit that to herself, let alone to him. Now she was close to him all she wanted to do was talk to him properly… intimately. She couldn't express what she really wanted to say. Instead, all she could do was fight with him.

"Why do you hate me, Keeta?"

She looked up in shock at his gentle question. It was as if he had been reading her mind.

"I don't hate you."

"Of course you do. You can barely bring yourself to look at me? What did I do to you?" His look was challenging and direct.

She shook her head and looked away. "I don't really want to talk about it right now."

He threw the shard of stone up in the air and caught it again. "Like you said in the shuttle, I don't think we're going anywhere so now is as good a time as any. If we're going to get out of here anytime soon I think we need to understand each other."

She scowled at him. "Do you have to practise to be this annoying?"

"Just answer my question."

"No."

"I'm not going to accept 'no'"

"Alright then, if you want to know." What did she have to lose? Her fear was making her reckless. "You're always brilliant at everything. You were the best at the Academy and you've been made chief navigator of Starfleet's flagship at twenty one. The Captain trusts you as a close friend. The whole senior staff treats you like their dearest, youngest child. You're destined for success. You're talented and popular and funny and good looking and you know it. You have a string of girls queuing up who you're just happy to sleep your way through, who want to have you as their trophy boyfriend on the Bridge, and you'd never look at anyone like me. There I've said it." Her eyes flashed bright with humiliation. "I'd rather you never liked me than to be rejected by you." She clamped her mouth shut. She had shocked herself by expressing out loud what she had barely admitted to herself.

"I didn't realise," said Chekov quietly after a brief pause. "I sound like a complete jerk. No wonder I always get dumped."

"No, it's not you," she muttered dejectedly, putting her head back against the wall and sighing. "You're all the things I said you were. I just wouldn't want to be just another one of those girls in the queue. God, did I really say all that out loud? I am so embarrassed. Just ignore me. I'm rambling."

Chekov was surprised. That wasn't what he had expected. Was he really so intimidating?

"I hope I would never let you feel like that."

She looked forward. "Really?"

Before he had time to answer, the door slammed open. Both Keeta and Chekov leapt to their feet as four large, cloaked and hooded men strode into the room. They moved forward and grabbed Keeta who was nearest to them. She screamed. Chekov threw himself at the men, trying to grab at Keeta to pull her away. One of the men stepped round her and grabbed him by the throat. He pushed him violently against the wall. Chekov felt his hot breath on his cheek. He smelt of blood and earth – a heady, vaguely familiar smell. He recognised it. It wasn't human. The others dragged Keeta out of the cell and into the dark corridor beyond. She screamed again, calling his name over and over again, crying out for him to help her. Her horrified voice filled his ears. The sound of her panic and terror seemed to etch itself into his mind.

"Where are you taking her? What are you doing with her?" he choked in desperation. " _Chto vy dyelayetye s nyei?"_

There was no reply. The man held him until the others had gone and then released him with a shove and strode out behind the others. The door slammed shut as quickly as it had opened. Chekov fell to his knees choking, taking harsh rasping gasps with his bruised throat. He half staggered to the door, feeling around the edges, frantically trying to look for some chink in its armour. He found none. He thumped the door helplessly with his fist and rested his hot forehead against the cold, immovable metal slab. He didn't want despair to overtake him. Keeta was right, he thought. He didn't have the creativity of the Captain or the logical insights of Mr Spock. He was only any good with figures and numbers and pieces of equipment. Eventually he turned round and put his back to the door and slid down onto his haunches, putting his head in his hands. What were they doing to Doeblin and Russell? What fate awaited him?

On his own in the cell, time seemed to stand still. The sky in the window turned dark and the stars came out. As far as he could tell they were indeed on Avior. As he expected, the door eventually opened and the four guards came in, still hooded and unknown. They pulled him up by the arm. He didn't resist. The same heady, musky smell filled his nostrils. It was familiar – he just couldn't think why. They led him down the corridor. It was as bleak and forbidding as the cell he had been in. It was narrow and the broad shoulders of the guards forced them to walk out of step with each other. Almost imperceptibly he felt the grasp of the guards slacken. It was all need needed. He turned and dived. His smaller arms slipped easily out from their giant grasp.

He broke free, running down the dark corridor in front of him towards the dull grey light at the end. Cries of anger went up behind him and the sound of the guards' pursuit echoed down the damp, slimy walls. He knew he was lighter and faster than they were. He had a chance – a minute one - of finding a way out. He passed under the grey light, slamming into the cold wall at the end before pushing himself off and scrabbling around the corner. To his right a similar door-lined passage stretched away into the darkness. He ran on, stumbling over the rough stones and willing his eyes to adapt more quickly to the gloom. He could hear the heavy breathing of the men over their boot-falls. They weren't far behind him. He had to keep moving. To his dismay the corridor was only short. His way was barred by a single large metal door. He found a button at the side to open it. Slapping it as hard as he could he nearly cried with relief when it opened. Not caring what was on the other side, he threw himself across the threshold but immediately brought himself up sharply with a cry of horror. There in the blinding white light of the room on a slim smooth metal table lay the body of Keeta Russell. She was dead. Her agonised, unseeing eyes stared vacantly upwards towards the ceiling while her lifeless body looked stiff and contorted. A thin bright red band of raw skin was etched across her forehead.

Chekov froze, momentarily forgetting his pursuers and the danger he was in. There was something about corpses that terrified and repelled him. It was almost a phobia. He had known all along that service on a starship would entail death at points along the way. Danger was in the nature of their mission. Since the Academy he had convinced himself that the clean, disintegrating effects of phaser fire would be all he would have to deal with. Many people had already been lost along the way in this the first two years of their five year mission. He had lost friends in the Security department. He had admired their bravery in the face of knowledge that their jobs were inherently dangerous. But here was poor Keeta. She hadn't signed up for this. None of them had. He had been talking to her and connecting with her not long ago. He had been just starting to get to know her as a person and now she was dead – killed brutally without thought. By whom, he did not know. Perhaps a similar fate awaited him.

It was with a sense of inevitability that he heard the four guards run into the room. With a roar two of them grabbed Chekov and pushed him over to a wall. He couldn't resist. They were too many. He watched helplessly as the other two unceremoniously rolled Keeta's body off the table and onto the floor. At this Chekov struggled forwards, blind anger suddenly welling up inside him at the treatment of his colleague's body. He was pulled back. One of the guards punched him. It nearly knocked him out. As his vision went black he felt the skin across his cheek split and the blood trickle down to his chin.

"What's all the commotion?" A cold grating man's voice echoed across the room.

The guards stood to a half-hearted attention, dragging Chekov up with them. He could make out several figures. They entered a room full of strange machinery and equipment. It might have been a laboratory - it might have been a torture chamber. He couldn't tell. It was white and clean and efficient.

"The last prisoner tried to escape," said one of guards. "He didn't get far." His voice was deep and he had trouble pronouncing the words as if his mouth were full of sharp teeth.

"So… we're down to the last prisoner…"

Through the pounding headache that was starting to bloom across his skull Chekov tried to see the face of the man who had spoken. He could make out a tall thin man dressed in white overalls but his face was hidden by a mask over his mouth and nose. He wore goggles over his eyes which gave them a thick, distorted look and his hair was covered in a tight cap. Chekov couldn't tell if he was young or old. It seemed to him that the dream wouldn't let him make out the features of any of the people in the room. When he tried to focus on them, all he could make out were blurred, vague impressions of faces. Everything seemed grey and uncertain.

"If he dies as well, we'll have to start all over again." One of the other figures, his face hidden beneath a large silver hood, dipped his head and spoke to the man with the goggles. "That would be inconvenient. We may not get another opportunity to capture any more of the Federation crew. Bring him here. And clear away this corpse." He motioned to the two guards stood next to the table. A large silver ring on the man's finger gnarled flashed in the bright lights. It bore the image of what looked like three small circles linked by a larger one. They bent down and picked up Keeta's body.

Chekov was overcome with rage again as he watched her being carried like an object rather than as a person worthy of some respect. His legs felt weak as he was dragged over to the table. "She wasn't just your prisoner," he blurted out, his voice catching in his throat. "She was a living human being. She was a good person. She didn't deserve to die like this."

As the man bent down to look at Chekov directly, the distorted, enlarged eyes seemed to become wider behind their thick glass. "Are you expressing an opinion, young man?" he sneered. "Do you want to know how she died? And the other one too?" He smiled patronisingly as Chekov realised that Doeblin was gone. "Or would you rather know what's going to happen to you next? Let's hope you don't go the same way, eh? Although you are humanoid like us, there are some differences in brain structure. Your colleagues paved the way for you."

The man patted his cheek and wiped away the trickle of blood with his thumb before looking him up and down. "Well, let's see now. You seem young and healthy enough. How old are you?"

"Why should I tell you anything? I'll tell you nothing," spat back Chekov.

The man with the ring stepped forward and waved his hand. "It's not important. We don't need your knowledge. We just need you." He moved it up and placed it on the Russian's chest, pressing it slightly. "You're the navigator, aren't you? How did you manage to detect our allies' ships? You knew they were there, didn't you? You touched on their deepest military secrets and yet your eyes are young and wide and full of so much innocence about the universe. Yes, you could be useful in so many other ways. But for now this will have to suffice. You're just a youth. The most important thing is how strong is your heart?" He moved his hand again and placed it on his forehead. "How strong is your mind?"

Chekov remained silent. He didn't want to think what his heart and mind would have to endure. He tried to pull his head away from the man's hand but the guards reacted instantly. He cried out as they twisted his arms harder behind his back, pushing him closer to the man. The man laughed.

"Good. Still battling me. That's a promising sign." He turned aside to a control panel."Put him on the table."

"Why?" asked Chekov suddenly, panic starting to overtake him. He felt himself being pulled towards the head of the table by the guards, his feet barely touching to ground. "Why do you need me? What are you going to do? If I'm going to die or if whatever you're going to do succeeds, I deserve to know why. Tell me."

One of the guards grabbed him behind the knees and swept him up into his arms like a child before dumping him down on the table. Chekov tried to twist to one side but the others pinned him down by his wrists. The man with the goggles stepped forwards with a device that looked like a thin gold and glass band.

"I'm going to become your nightmare, young man," he laughed bitterly.

"Is melodrama supposed to scare me?" _If it is, it's working,_ he thought.

The man placed the band on Chekov's head before pressing a button on the front of it.

"It's not melodrama. I mean it quite literally."

Chekov screwed up his eyes expecting pain. Instead he felt a warm vibration through his skull and a tightness in his chest. As the silent seconds ticked by he could feel his heart beating faster and faster. Against his efforts to steady himself, he felt his breathing rate increase. The vibrations from the device around his head became stronger, more intense. In the stillness of the room all he could hear was the hum of the control equipment and his own increasingly laboured gasps for air.

After a few minutes a ripple of interest went through the group.

"Good… interesting… This looks very promising."

Chekov forced his eyes open. His head was swimming. He could make out one of the group leaning over him, examining the data on the panel. The ring on his finger flashed like a strobe light as he raised his hand to the monitors.

"I think this time we're in luck. Look at these readings. Excellent learning skills, great plasticity, strong emotional centres. He's going to be perfect for our purposes."

The man in the hood nodded. "Proceed."

The man in the goggles leaned down and pressed on either side of the band around Chekov's head.

"Ssssh, boy," he said in mock consolation. "This won't hurt a bit."

A feeling of a thousand tiny needles exploded into his skin and through his skull. He screamed.


	6. Chapter 6

Kirk sat back in McCoy's armchair with a slight groan. The doctor had dimmed the lights in his cabin to accommodate his captain's growing headache. Although a relaxing atmosphere had been achieved, Kirk could feel himself tipping over the edge into outright tiredness. He had been on his feet all day negotiating on Avior with the Stritan and Shonen diplomatic missions. His back ached, his feet ached, everything ached – even his brain. He let the cushion of the armchair absorb his weight and closed his eyes for a moment to contemplate. One thing he had managed to ascertain was that the people of Avior were not just divided against each other but amongst themselves also. The day had been long, slow and pedantic. It had taken all of his concentration and patience to maintain a polite and professional level of calm. Progress had been made, however, and the dinner that had been arranged for them that evening was testament to the fact that a resolution and cease-fire was not far off.

He felt a glass being shoved into his hand.

"Here, take this. It's a quick pick-me-up."

Kirk opened his eyes to see McCoy looking wryly down at him. He gave the glass in front of him a skeptical look.

"Is it medicinal, doctor?"

"You bet your life it is," growled McCoy. "Now drink up. We haven't got long until we're needed at this goddam dinner."

Kirk sniffed the glass and was vaguely disappointed. Bones, was right, it did smell medicinal. He watched as McCoy turned to a small cabinet behind him and poured himself a glass too.

"I'm busy," McCoy continued to grumble. "I could think of better things to do this evening than spend time on cosy chit chat with those psychopaths on that planet." He knocked back the green liquid and pulled a face. "Urgh! That hit the spot."

Kirk sniffed his glass again and took a small sip. The taste was indeterminately clinical.

"Don't worry," he said soothingly. We're not in a hurry. We've got at least another three hours before we need to arrive." He saw McCoy open his mouth to begin an excuse. "And it's not just 'chit chat' we've got to do tonight. We need to find out who took our navigational team and we can only do that away from the negotiating table. Otherwise we might be seen to be taking sides." He paused, his mind turning to the other reason they were going to Avior. "So have you been making progress with Chekov? Has he been co-operating?"

McCoy closed his open mouth and gave an unamused smile. "Well… no, not at first."

"How was he?" His navigator's demeanour still deeply worried Kirk. It was so completely out of character. He felt he could slap him out of it, but objectively knew that it would do no good. Every member of his crew was important to him, but his bridge crew were the most special. Although he would never voice it out loud, Chekov, as the youngest, struck a chord with him. He reminded him of his younger, less care-worn and less responsibility-laden self. Like all ensigns, he supposed, his navigator could be eager and rash. Although he was young and had less experience to fall back on, Kirk knew he was as seasoned a hand to have on the Bridge as Sulu or Scotty. That was why he had chosen him for the Five Year Mission and why he refused to let him fall victim to whoever had taken him and changed him.

McCoy shrugged before pulling up another chair and sitting down heavily in it. "He's ill natured, nasty, aggressive, sullen… I could go on but I'd run out of adjectives. He let Christine finish her skin repair this morning, but after that he kept demanding to be sent back to Avior. He got pretty angry. Started to become violent again. He smashed a vial and tried to attack Christine with it. Fortunately, by the time I got there she had him in a head lock. I wasn't sure if I'd have to sedate him or her." He shook his head. "But, you know, the funny thing is, the old Chekov is definitely still in there somewhere." He leat forward. "Just after he was sedated, before he fell asleep, he started to talk in Russian. At first I just assumed he was drifting off, but Christine heard him mention Doeblin and Russell again. When we switched on the Universal Translator he kept talking about a man with a ring and a girl screaming. Over and over again as if it were obsessing him."

Kirk held the cool side of the glass against his faintly throbbing temple. "Do you think that's his real memory seeping through?"

"Could be."

"So how do we get him out?" Kirk knocked back the rest of the liquid and pulled a face, he imagined, that resembled the same one that McCoy had pulled earlier.

McCoy stood up and took Kirk's glass from him. "Well, that's where M'Benga and I have been making progress. Remember I said that several of his bones had been broken and reset using molecular sequencing?"

Kirk nodded. "You said the technology to do that wasn't available on Avior."

"Correct. It isn't. Only the Federation, Klingons and Romulans have the know-how to do it at the subatomic level required for that kind of speedy repair."

"That's a pretty big pool of suspects, Bones."

McCoy waved the glass in front of him. "That's because it's not difficult when you know how. But there's more," his blue eyes gleamed. "I have found out what is causing his memory 'loss'."

"Now that's more like it. Go on." Kirk sat up, his burgeoning head ache vanishing as he focused his attention on the doctor.

"Wait, I'll show you," said McCoy, turning and placing the glasses down on a table before rifling through a pile of datapads next to them. He picked up one and scrolled through the information. He found what he wanted and handed Kirk the pad. He sat on the arm of the chair and pointed at the data. "Here, see this."

Kirk looked in bewilderment at the cascade of chemical formulae and molecular symbols and shook his head. "Bones, I'm a captain, not a physician."

McCoy scowled at him, snatching the pad off him. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No, really. What is all this supposed to be telling me?"

McCoy harrumphed and gave the pad back to him. He sometimes forgot that, although Kirk could probably knew the ship inside out as well as Scotty, when it came to medicine, he only made a good first-aider.

"It's a virus in the brain."

Kirk paused and looked at the data again. "Are you telling me he's picked up some kind of a disease? Is it infectious?"

"No, no, no." McCoy drawled, scrolling through to another set of data on the pad. "This is a specifically targeted virus. A virus that has been created to inhibit real memory and allow the placement and retention of false, synthetic memories."

Kirk looked up at him. "I can't begin to think how complicated that would be to produce."

McCoy nodded. "Exactly – so once again, this technology didn't come from Avior. They can't even do a simple thing like set broken bones in a hurry. They certainly didn't invent targeted viral manipulation."

Kirk sat back in his chair, still concerned about the on-board threat. He drummed his fingers on his knee. "But why didn't the biofilters pick it up when we beamed him aboard?"

"Because it's in the brain. The virus is there but as far as we can tell it isn't replicating. It's almost performing a function of the brain. The filters weren't able to distinguish it from any other normal bodily aspect."

Kirk jerked himself out of his chair. He was angry that any member of his crew should have this done to them. It was frustrating that they still didn't know why. At least now they had a physical answer and something to go with. "So what's the next step? Can you get it out of him?"

McCoy nodded firmly. "M'Benga's working on it. He has experience in this field. He thinks it should be a simple matter to extract it."

"Can you tell from the virus who created it?" Kirk was hopeful that this would give them the answers they needed.

McCoy shook his head. "Unfortunately not. It's a complex protein wrapped around some fairly ordinary human DNA. At a first pass I'm fairly sure they've even used his own."

"Damn. There must be somewhere we can find more evidence as to who is behind this," said Kirk, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. "Chekov thinks it's the Stritans but from what you say that can't be the case. Apart from there and here, the only place he has been was in the shuttle. That's the only place left to check again."

"Didn't Spock say all the telemetry had been wiped?" asked McCoy with a frown.

"Yes, he did," Kirk sighed louder than he meant to. "But I'll get Sulu and Uhura to give the systems one last look over before we beam down. Perhaps they can find something we haven't thought of." He headed out towards the door. "Thanks for the drink, Bones. Get back to work and do what you can for Chekov. I think we're one step closer."


	7. Chapter 7

The 'dinner' wasn't at all what Kirk has expected. He turned to Spock who stood just behind him in the throng of people with a wry look. The Vulcan shifted his weight to stand a little straighter and put his hands behind his back. They had beamed down to a large auditorium with high ceilings that seemed to stretch upwards into the night sky. Music, if you could call it that, thundered out from all sides, its heavy low beat pulsated through to the captain's very bones. The space was packed full of Aviorans – the Shonens in their orange robes, the Stritans in their green and red robes. There was clear delineation between the two groups but where they met in the middle, some were brave enough to mingle.

"Well, this isn't what I thought we were getting," said McCoy cheerfully, reaching for a small selection of foods from a series of long tables that lined every wall. "Makes a change from one of those endless formal dinners."

He surveyed the hall. Many of the Aviorans were dancing to the thumping rhythms, their bodies swaying to the primeval lilting melodies.

"Are you going to join in, Spock?" asked McCoy with a more than mischievous smile.

Spock did not even deign to look at the doctor. "No," he replied stonily. "Dancing is an illogical pastime. For ceremonial purposes I find it a pointless and an unnecessary use of time and as a bonding ritual it is inefficient."

McCoy munched on a small pastry. "That's because it's fun. You wouldn't understand. Mmmnn, this food is good. Not bad. Have some, Jim. Tastes delicious."

Kirk shook his head and smiled. "Not yet, Bones. I'll get the meeting with the Aviorans over first then maybe I'll think about food." He turned to his navigator who was stood next to Spock. "Chekov, have some food. McCoy tells me you've eaten nothing all day."

Chekov's eyes slowly focussed on the captain. He had been staring at the crowd but Kirk could tell he had not been looking at them - he had been deep in his own thoughts. He shook his head.

"I'm not hungry," he said in a surly voice, turning back to the crowd, folding his arms.

Kirk smiled tightly. "I could make it an order, Ensign."

The eyes slid back into focus again. "You could."

Kirk turned to his Security Chief, Lieutenant Park. "Keep an eye on him," he murmured.

Park nodded. "I'd feel happier if we hadn't had our phasers confiscated for the night."

Before Kirk had time to reply a voice rang out over the music. "Captain Kirk! What a pleasure it is to meet you again!"

Kirk turned to find the negotiation group he had been talking to for the past long weeks emerging out of the crowd. It consisted of members of the Stritan and Shonen governments – the very highest representatives of the planet. It had taken Kirk some time, but he had finally been rewarded with their co-operation and agreement in the negotiations. Formal introductions began as both Spock and McCoy were introduced to Ministers Ryewo and Shank. The usual platitudes and official proclamations were made as they approached. Kirk responded in kind.

"May I introduce Mr Spock my First Officer and Dr McCoy my Chief Surgeon," said Kirk politely, ushering forwards his crewmen. Hands were shaken and bows exchanged.

"And who is this?" asked Stritan Minister Ryewo finally, his eyes alighting on Chekov who stood mute and downcast in the background. "Is this…?" He turned to his entourage with a querying look.

One of his group stepped up to murmur in Ryewo's ear. "Yes, Minister. This is the Terran who was reputed to have been incarcerated and tortured in one of our prisons."

Ryewo turned his translucent blue eyes back to Chekov. "Tell me, young man, is this true?"

Chekov did not seem able to meet the minister's gaze. He looked down and away. "I don't know," he said fiercely. "I don't remember. When I joined my unit, they told me that was where I had come from. I didn't have any reason to doubt them. They were my friends. My brothers in the Cause."

"Mr Chekov is my navigator, Minister Ryewo, and a trusted and valuable member of my crew," offered Kirk hurriedly, shooting a glare at the Russian. "He went missing with two other members of my crew two months ago on their way to meet Minister Shank to offer our mapping services. We did not know there was a war on. Mr Chekov reappeared two weeks ago in a Shonen fighting unit. We have had no word of the others."

"That is most unusual," said Ryewo gravely. He turned to the rest of his group in query. "We have no record of him ever having passed through Strite, let alone being in one of our prisons."

"How thorough is your information, Ryewo?" asked Shank. "The Terrans certainly never made it to our meeting."

Ryewo gave a patient smile and shook his white-shocked head. "I see your line of questioning, Shank, and yes, I asked for full and complete accounts from all of our secret agencies. In the spirit of openness and reconciliation, I am confident that nothing was concealed from me. On my honour – your navigator was never in a Stritan prison."

"You're lying." Chekov's statement was more snarl than accusation. He looked up, his glare a brazen challenge.

Ryewo twitched in both surprise and anger at the young man's tone. "What did your boy say, Captain Kirk? Does he know with whom he is speaking?"

Kirk stepped forward and pushed Chekov back with one, firm hand. "I apologise, Minister Ryewo. Something happened to him on Avior. He's lost his memory. He's been brainwashed somehow. He isn't in his right mind. Dr McCoy will confirm -"

"Dr McCoy can theorise and wave his useless instruments over me, but it won't change the fact that I am a soldier and that I am loyal only to Shonen," interrupted Chekov, elbowing his way back past Kirk. "I don't care what Kirk says. I don't care what you say. The war will continue until Shonen is victorious. This false peace you are brokering will never last."

"Mr Chekov, remember where you are and who you are speaking to," commanded Spock.

"Chekov, that's enough," growled Kirk. "Don't make me wish I hadn't brought you. We're trying to help you."

"He's highly stressed," offered McCoy apologetically. "He has both physical and mental scarring from intensive combat in -"

"Don't patronise me!" spat Chekov, his anger suddenly flaring. "You're all lying. You're all trying to use me."

"Young man," a smooth voice cut into the burgeoning argument.

Chekov stopped suddenly as if frozen by the calm words.

"You have obviously been through some sort of terrible ordeal. Let our hospitality calm you."

A man in a long, silver hooded robe, moved forwards from the back of Shank's group. He raised his thin arm and snapped his bony fingers. A silver ring flashed in the bright lights of the hall. Two young women appeared out of the crowd. Each was beautiful in their pale white robes and with their pearl white skin. "These are _Nejif_ girls. They will look after you. Go with them, young man. Forget the war for just one night. With your permission, Captain?"

Kirk nodded to the man. "We are here to accept your hospitality, Mr..?"

"Fhaj. Special Envoy to the Shonen Ministry. You and your crew have done so much for us to bring us to this point. Please, let us show you our gratitude and hospitality."

Fhaj motioned the girls to step forwards. Chekov, his mind still numb and reeling from the sight of the ring, let himself be led away by the hand by one of the girls. They pulled him into the crowd, deeper and deeper until he lost sight of the captain and the ministers. The people were packed close to one another, it was impossible not to move with the mass of bodies and to feel the vibrations from the music rise and fall within him as he moved in and out of the resonant frequencies. Some of the young people cast him strange and curious looks. His dark hair and eyes made him stand out in the sea of white heads and pale turquoise eyes. Most ignored him – too high on tassa to care who or what he was.

He suddenly felt an arm snake itself across his shoulder. He turned around. One of the _Nejif_ girls with long blonde hair was dancing close to him. Her red and green robes, which seemed to cling to her shoulders as if held up by magic, carried a clasp of knotted gold. He knew what it symbolised.

"Peace and tranquility of mind, brother soldier," she said languidly, pulling his head down to her mouth. She kissed him before he had time to react. She let him go, laughing at his reticence. Her eyes were on the edge of unfocussed. She had had enough tassa to lose most of her inhibitions, but she still knew what she was doing, he guessed. Suddenly another arm slid up his back. He turned around to find the other girl smiling at him.

"Dance with us," she laughed, pulling him towards her and entwining her arms around his waist. "You're alien. Do you make love like we do?" she asked brazenly, her hands sliding forwards across his hips. Chekov caught her hands in his and held them at his side. Beneath her words he could hear a lack of conviction in her voice.

"You're _Nejif_ girls. You're government paid prostitutes," he said, pushing the girl away. He looked her in the eyes. She wasn't high like the other girl. Underneath her short tousled cropped hair, her expression was haunted. "I didn't come to prolong your degradation."

The first girl laughed. "Degradation? You're funny! Don't be coy with us, handsome boy. You look like you know how to have a good time. Here," she said, reaching into a small velvet pouch at her side and pulling out a large piece of tassa. "Try it. You'll feel soooo much better."

He held up his hand and pushed the tassa aside. "No. I know what it is. I don't want any."

The other girl took it from the first and pushed it in front of him again. "Go on," she said abruptly. "It doesn't do any harm. It just makes you feel good. What are you? Don't you aliens like women, or something? Take it."

Chekov shook his head. "No. I don't want it."

"But we want you to. We insist," said the first girl, pouting and looking hurt.

"If you don't take it, they'll kill us." said the second girl in an aggressive whisper. "You're right. Our lives are a misery but we don't want to die."

Almost before he realised, the two girls had grabbed him by both arms. He struggled to pull away from them, but their grasp was strong – stronger than he would have guessed. They pulled him to his knees. The mass of dancing bodies barely parted as the group dropped to the floor. One of the girls pulled his head back by the hair. The sudden pain made him gasp. As he did so the second girl pushed the tassa into his mouth and closed up his jaw and pinched his nose.

"I'm sorry," he heard her whisper. "You shouldn't feel sorry for us. We have our orders. This is war."

He had to swallow. As soon as he did, they let him go. He fell forwards, choking. He felt them lift him up as the familiar coolness of the tassa numbed the back of his neck and down his shoulders. They pushed him on again through the crowd, swaying and dancing to the rhythm of the music. He tried to shake his head as if he could dissipate the thick mist of altered reality that was descending upon him. He put out his hands to steady himself against the other dancers, trying to grasp at their clothes to hold himself back but nothing impeded his forced passage through the crowd. Time passed. He wasn't sure how long. He lost himself in the sea of faces and kisses of the Nejif girls. Their lips were tainted with the bitter, musky taste of tassa. Eventually the music receded behind him and he found himself entering a small room. The man with the ring was stood waiting for him in the middle. Tall and thin, his robes folded round him like a bird of prey. The Nejif girls stood patiently at the door.

"Welcome back, Pavel Chekov." He held out his hand. The ring flashed like a beacon.

Chekov knelt and took his hand. "I have come. Is it time?"

Fahj smiled benevolently. "Yes, my boy. Your time has come. Are you ready?"

Chekov bowed his head. "Yes," he whispered.

"Even though you know the consequences?"

"Yes. I'll give my life for Shonen. You know that."

Fahj smiled and withdrew his hand, plunging it into a deep pocket in his robes. He pulled out a standard phaser and presented it to Chekov.

"You know how to use this. We took them from your landing party. Take it and use it well. Now go."

Fahj motioned to the Nejif girls to step forward. "Take him. Give him one last night of pleasure. He doesn't have long. Soon all Avior will be saved."

The girls pulled Chekov back out into the crowd. The rest of the evening passed in a blur. He eventually fell asleep - tangled amid soft cushions and the arms of the Nejif girls. He began to dream.


	8. Chapter 8

"Goddamit!"

Uhura threw out a bag of precision repair tools into the cabin before crawling out from underneath the communications console. She sat on the floor and rubbed her head.

"I know everything's been damaged by the explosion, but couldn't whoever designed these shuttles have made the maintenance access more user friendly?" She placed the panel back across the circuit array and pushed it shut with an annoyed thump of her heel.

Sulu looked over at her from the helm and raised his eyebrows. Commenting, he realised, was only going to get him a scolding. He shared her frustration. The shuttle was not giving up its secrets easily. He looked around the small compartment. It was a sorry sight. Half of the ceiling had collapsed onto the floor. Cables and circuits hung down like depressing bunting. Although Scotty's engineers had cleared away the debris, the scorched walls and fractured and twisted panels spoke of a massive explosion. It made him shudder to think anyone had been in here when it happened.

"I've checked all the extra-ship communications data," Uhura continued, standing up stiffly, tugging her blue overalls out from behind her knees. She turned to an environmental console on which she had left a tool case. She emptied the bag of tools onto it and began to return them to the case. "I've checked all the back-up drives and all the memory circuits and there's nothing there on any frequency – no ship to ship signals, no warnings, no probes. Nothing, until Doeblin sent the mayday signal. And for some reason that wasn't jammed. Whoever attacked the ship was happy for it to go."

Sulu continued to run through his diagnostic programs with fading hope. "No communications, no weapons data recorded, all physical helm and navigation data wiped clean, no ion trails, nothing. Whoever attacked this ship and took the crew did a very efficient job of covering their tracks in a very short space of time."

Uhura turned and propped herself up on the console. "Did Scotty double check for transporter signals?"

"Yes, and again… all wiped clean."

"That's just not possible," she said in frustration. "You can't just hit another ship and run without leaving some kind of signal. What about ship movements in the surrounding space?"

Sulu shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. According to Spock's long range sensors, nothing has moved out here in at least three months."

They both fell silent. Captain Kirk had asked them to pull all the data available for Spock to analyse. So far they had come up with nothing. It felt like failure. Sulu mentally ran through the systems: helm, navigation, communications, weapons, engineering, science, environmental…

"Environmental," he muttered to himself. He leaned over to a console by a side window to his left and fired up the board. Environmental also included the logs. They had already looked through them twice, but it was the only thing left that might allow them to see what the shuttle crew had seen. He hit the playback from before the explosion. He watched the three crewmembers go about their tasks. Nothing looked unusual.

"There's not much here either," he sighed. "The audio was lost when the primary systems failed but I've got visuals on Doeblin. He was at the rear and Chekov and Russell were up front."

As the log played out Uhura moved to stand next to him. She leant over his shoulder watching the silent scene unfold. As Chekov was working, Keeta Russell sat down next to him. Uhura watched her press a button on the helm.

"Why is she doing that?" she asked, pointing at the screen.

"Interfering for some reason," replied Sulu. "That was the navigation override request protocol she initiated."

Uhura continued to watch, examining Chekov and Russell's conversation. The Russian looked furious. Russell, however, looked more eager to talk. Uhura put her head to one side and smiled slightly. "Oh, I think I know why. She wanted to get his attention."

"Attention?" Sulu fast forwarded through the ensuing scene. "Everyone knows she can't stand him. She doesn't keep that a secret from anyone."

Uhura straightened up and put her hands on Sulu's shoulders. "She doesn't hate him, Hikaru. It's obvious. She's just a bit shy that's all. She' got herself all tangled up expressing herself. Haven't you heard the phrase 'any attention is good attention'? She's in love with him. See the way she's looking at him."

"Hmn," Sulu grumbled. "I hope he doesn't find out. It will make his head swell even more."

Uhura batted him across the head. "You're far too critical."

"Well, it's a shame for her he doesn't look interested," replied Sulu, pausing the play-back as Chekov's hand suddenly flew up to silence Russell. "I know that look on his face. He's completely engrossed in data. He's calculating something. You know Scotty's started calling him Spock's Little Helper?"

"What could he be calculating?" Uhura bent down and put her chin on Sulu's shoulder. "There was nothing out there?"

They watched as Doeblin appeared from the rear of the craft. He discussed something briefly with Chekov before the young navigator turned back to adjust something on his console. A few seconds later the screen froze, holding the image of their friend looking over his shoulder, his mouth half open to say something, his eyes focussed and intense. The log was missing from this point onwards. Sulu quickly rewound it to before Russell had sat down at the helm.

"Come on, Chekov. Tell me what you're doing. What are you looking for?" he whispered to himself. He watched the mute images on the screen, rewinding them to the same place several times over. The only sound was Uhura's soft breathing in his ear. The buttons the young man pressed began to coalesce into a pattern. "He's written a program. He's going to send out test signals. I'm sure that's what he's doing." He swung back to the helm and fired up the console. "All the external data may have been wiped, but did they erase all the unsent data?" His fingers flew across the board, searching for the information that Chekov had programmed. After a few moments he found what he was looking for. "There. I knew it. He was going to do a sub-space navigation sweep."

Uhura took a seat next to the helmsman and ran her eyes over the data. "But you'd only do that for gravitational hazards. Why is he doing it here?"

Sulu stared at the data scrolling smoothly in front of him, leaning forwards and willing the information to leap out and give him the answers. He had worked so closely with Chekov he often felt, in critical Bridge situations, he knew what the young man was thinking. It was one of the reasons Kirk had promoted Chekov – he had gelled with Sulu and his way of working so easily. They worked together intuitively. "You're not looking for hazards are you? You think there's something physical out there. Something big. Something that could cause a space-time distortion. Even a tiny one. But there's nothing there..."

"Unless it's cloaked," said Uhura grimly.

Sulu sat back in his chair, tapping his finger on the edge of the console. "A cloaked ship can't be detected using a sub-space navigation sweep. You learn that at the Academy."

"What if it's not just a ship?"

Sulu swivelled round in his chair to face her. "You mean bigger? The Klingons and Romulans haven't been able to cloak anything bigger than a ship."

"Yet."

Sulu saw the worry on Uhura's face and pulled her up out of her chair. "We need to get this to the Captain and Mr Spock. Now."


	9. Chapter 9

The dream became a nightmare. Day after day he was submitted to the same routine. Knowing what was coming each morning only made it worse – made him sick to his stomach as he woke. He was dragged from his cell by the hooded alien guards, pulled along the same dank corridor and pushed into the blindingly bright room where Doeblin and Keeta had died. If he resisted, they beat him. If he didn't resist – the same thing happened. They would haul him up from the floor where he would slip on his own red blood on the ice white floor. As he was held down to the table, the man with the grotesque goggles clamped the golden glass band to his head. Over and over again the excruciating pain of the needles twisted his body and his mind. He felt as if he were being slowly and painfully emptied. Then the man with the silver ring would appear. He would talk to him soothingly, mopping the young Russian's sweating brow with the corner of his long sleeve. He would tell him to listen to his voice, that only what he said was true. He told him to forget everything he had known up to now and that when he did, the pain would stop. His voice dripped like slow poison into his ear. When he thought he could take no more, when he thought his heart would burst from his chest, they removed the band. He felt disoriented and confused. His throat was raw from screaming, his mouth foul with the smell of the hand of the guard who tried to stifle his cries. Little by little he started to trust the voice and forget where he was, what had happened before he had entered the room and why he was there.

When they were finished with him they returned him to his cell, throwing him in and slamming the door without a word. For hours he would lay on the rag that Keeta had given him, curled up in a ball, cradling his head in his hands. He was weak and sick with pain. He could not even get up when the guards brought him the thin soup he had to eat. They would kick him to see if he was alive before leaving. Eventually he would pull himself off the floor and pick up the bowl and put it to his lips. He knew the cold soup was laced with chemicals, but he was so hungry he drank it down anyway. When he felt well enough he would try to scratch a mark on the wall with the stone that he had first found, to try to count the days. Gradually he began to forget why the fourteen marks were there or who had put them there at all.

One day the guards brought him some more clothes to replace his ripped and dirty golden uniform. He put on the thick grey shirt and black trousers in the hope that they would offer him some warmth. They did, but he felt that they took him even further away from who he was. Whoever that was. He had a name, Pavel Andreevich Chekov, but that was all. He didn't know what it meant. He would stare at the distorted reflection of himself in a small puddle made by the rain that came in from the open window high above him. He tried to hang on to half-remembered words and images: Enterprise… navigator… Russia… home… But the tear-stained, bruised face that looked back at him from above the high grey collar seemed without purpose, the black eyes hollow. He would put his hand in the puddle to dispel the image, as if it were taboo, angry, but not sure why.

One day the routine was broken. After several hours in the white room he was taken, stumbling with dizziness and nausea, not back down to his cell, but to a room higher up in the building. This room was small and intimate, decorated with soft, low seats of deep orange velvet, alcoves hung with heavy red drapes and lit with an amber glow. The guards, who had been half carrying him, dropped him where he stood before stepping back. Chekov sank down onto his knees onto the soft luxuriant rug. He dug his fingers into its thick pile to try to hold himself up by his shaking arms. He wanted to lie down on it and sleep.

"Who are you?"

Chekov looked up to see who had spoken the words. He could make out a figure, tall and hooded, the silver ring on his finger. He recognised the smooth, persuasive voice from the white room. As always, he could not see the face.

Chekov frowned at the question, closed his eyes. How could such a simple enquiry cause him so much conflict? He bowed his head, channelling all of his fading energy into his reply. "I am…" He fought past the darkness of his mind. "Pavel Andreevich Chekov. Ensign… USS Enterprise."

"Admirable that you can still resist me," growled the man, unable to hide his anger. He gestured to the guards with a sharp wave of his hand. "Take him away. Break his arm. Perhaps that will concentrate his mind."

Chekov let himself be hauled to his feet and watched the man as he swept his cloak around him and turned to exit the room.

"You can break my body but you will never break me," he said. He wanted to sound defiant but he heard only fear and exhaustion in his voice.

The man stopped and paused without turning round. "Break both his arms," he said, pulling aside a curtain and vanishing behind it.

Back in his cell the guards followed their orders efficiently. He passed out with the pain.

The next day the man with the goggles set his broken bones but the treatment with the gold and glass band continued. The alien guards held him down as he lay gasping on the table. The man with the ring appeared at his side like a phantom. He dismissed the guards. It was obvious to him that the prisoner was too weak to make any kind of escape. Again the man took the corner of his sleeve and wiped the young man's brow.

"I am disappointed with you, Pavel Chekov," he said musingly.

Chekov heard him through the sound of the rushing of his own blood in his ears. He refused to reply. The pain, although fading, consumed him totally.

"You must forget who you were. It is the only way we can move on. This… stubbornness you are indulging in will not free you from what I want you to do. The outcome for you is inevitable. You must realise that. No matter how strong you are. And your mind is indeed strong. I am impressed. Did yesterday teach you a lesson? You know I will break every bone in your body if I have to. I don't want to do that. You are too valuable to us. And we are so close to our goal. Don't be a fool. I don't want to see you destroyed like so many of our young people. We have sacrificed too many."

Chekov thought he could hear a note of regret in the man's voice.

"Are you feeling sorry for me?" he asked hoarsely, turning his head towards the sound of the man's voice.

"Sorry?" The man seemed to be surprised by the question. "Yes, I suppose I am. Our time spent together has reminded me of someone. Someone very very close to me. Someone who never should have died in this war."

"Who?"

"Aullta"

Chekov focused on the conversation. It was a distraction from the pain. "Who was Aullta?"

"Aullta was my son." Chekov could hear the bitterness in the answer. He had touched a deep nerve.

"How did he die?"

The man brushed Chekov's damp hair out of his eyes with an almost fatherly hand and tucked a strand behind his ear. "Aullta was about your age. A little older perhaps. Strong and handsome. He had a brilliant future ahead of him. He wanted to study as a doctor. But then the war came. He was killed by enemy forces at the Battle of Lokk. My only son. Taken from me." He bent over and put his head next to Chekov's ear, with an agitated gesture "After he died I gave up caring about anyone or anything. Now I only have one goal – to end this war as quickly and as easily as possible. You are going to do that for me. Neither side can do it on its own. We have allies. Already they have intervened with their medical and technical knowledge. Now that the Federation is starting to become involved, they will have to intervene more directly. You saw them out in space, didn't you?"

Chekov let his head fall away from the man, his energy suddenly draining away from him. The effort of concentration was proving too much. The direct question about his past suddenly left him reeling. "I don't know. I can't remember," he murmured. "There was a girl. Screaming...Or was there? I don't know any more." Images and sounds filled his mind in a confused blur.

The man stood up, regaining his composure. He placed his hand on Chekov's cheek."Good. It's only a matter of time before you are ours completely."

He turned to the man with the goggles who stood waiting patiently in a corner. "Continue."

Several days later he was taken to the upstairs room again. This time there were more men. The guards dropped him on the floor as before and stepped back. Chekov felt the thick rug beneath his fingers. It and the room seemed familiar but he wasn't sure why. If it was familiar, he reasoned, then it must be alright. He no longer had any other bearings by which to guide himself.

"Who are you?"

He looked up at the question to see six men, their faces blurred. He couldn't focus on them. He felt he might have seem the before. A log time ago.

"I don't know," he replied vacantly. "Who am I?"

The men nodded and made approving sounds.

"Congratulations," they said to each other. "Our allies' medical knowledge has finally served us well. He is ready."

One of the men stepped forward and held out his hand, extending his gnarled silver ringed finger. Chekov took the hand and kissed the ring reverently, as if compelled, eager to hold onto something tangible in a world of fleeting memory.

"Do you trust me completely?" asked the man.

"Yes, I do," replied Chekov blankly, grasping the hand as if it were a lifeline. "Tell me what I must do." There was a void in his soul that this man's voice was filling.

Again the men muttered their approval.

"Not yet, my boy. The time will come. You will be our sacrifice to end this war. Not one more drop of Avioran blood will be spilled." He took Chekov by the shoulders and lifted him off the floor, leading him through the heavy curtains. "Come with us and rest. You have much to do."


	10. Chapter 10

Tacus Vairon, the Shonen Ambassador, stood in front of the mirror and put on a white ceremonial sash over his orange and brown robes. It was the last item of symbolic clothing that signified peace and reconciliation. He hoped the Stritans would appreciate the gesture. He contemplated his grey hair and increasingly wrinkled face. He was getting old he realised – too old for war, certainly. He had fought in the wars as a young man himself and had only seen bloodshed and stalemate. He wanted this evening to be a fitting swan song to his career. It would make him proud to be the Ambassador who brought peace to Avior. The Stritans had been astute to bring in the Federation. He admired them for that. And for that also, he would do everything in his power to bring about a lasting and final Peace Agreement.

His door chimed.

"Enter!" he called out, straightening out the flowing clothing over his shoulders.

A young man entered the room, his image appearing in the mirror. The Ambassador turned and was surprised. He expected one of the guards perhaps, or one of the council members. Instead it was the young Terran who had been missing on Avior who stood before him. At their earlier meeting, Vairon thought he had intelligent and expressive eyes, but all he could see in them now was a guarded mistrust.

"How can I help you?" asked Vairon frowning. "Did the guards give you permission to enter. I told them I wasn't to be disturbed."

The young man's dark eyes dropped. He smiled slightly. A charming smile normally, thought Vairon, only now very dangerous. "I didn't need the guards' permission. I already had authority."

"From whom?"

"An authority equal to yours." He folded his hands behind him and leant back against the door, his head bowed.

The Ambassador understood the gesture – he wasn't going to be allowed to pass. He shifted nervously. The young man had not come to his room on a mission of goodwill, he realised. But at the moment he was speaking in riddles, he couldn't discern his objective.

"What do you want?" he asked. He was old enough and had lived through too much conflict to be afraid of a young pup like this.

"I have been sent to take your life."

Vairon froze at the words, spoken with a quiet and cold simplicity. He swallowed down his immediate fear. The man may have been young but he was still an alien and Vairon had no idea how Terrans really reacted. So far he had only seen them at the negotiating table. The idea that Kirk had been planning this all along caused anger to rise up in him.

"A young, smooth cheeked boy like you? Can Kirk not carry out his own bloody business? And how are you going to do it? Have they given you an assassin's _skit_ blade? I have been fighting longer than you've been alive. There are guards everywhere. You wouldn't make it out of the building."

The young man pulled something out from behind his back. "I was given this to complete the task."

He held a Federation standard issue phaser in front of him. He held it, feeling its weight and texture to show the ambassador how familiar it was to him.

"And they told me you had been a navigator and a scientist," sneered Vairon, unable to hide his disdain. He was right. The Federation had planned this.

The young man looked up sharply. The alien set of his face sent a shiver down Vairon's back. None one on Avior had fine features and dark eyes like his. "I have only become what the people of Avior wanted me to become. But it so happens that I have exceptional hand-eye co-ordination. Marksmanship is a hobby of mine."

"And arrogance, obviously. That seems to be a Terran trait. Even with that weapon you would never make it out of here alive. You've been sent on a suicide mission. Who sent you?" asked Vairon, tiring of the allusions and hints the young man was offering him. "Your Captain? The Federation? Are they working with the Stritans?" He felt his anger mounting as the consequences played out in his mind. "Is this the only way they think they can end the war? By killing the best chance they have had in years for a lasting peace? Listen to me, child. Killing me will solve nothing. It will only fan the flames further. All of Shonen will rise up in bloody fury against Strite and the Federation. Is this why they called in your Captain? Was it just a ploy to assassinate the Shonen High Government? Do they not realise that the Federation will be drawn into this war? I have heard rumours that some of our government have been courting other major powers in this sector with a view to forming alliances with them. Some would even be so desperate as to ally us with Empires that would enslave us. That's how much the people of this planet want peace. They want it _at any cost_. If you have come to kill me, then do it. The Avior that will come after is not a place that I want to live in."

"There's no need to be so dramatic, Ambassador," the young man soothed, pushing himself away from the door with a shrug. "A new Avior will dawn, no matter what happens in here. You need to come with me now. This night will not finish with your death."

He motioned with his phaser towards a smaller room at the back. "Is that another way out?"

Vairon squared himself up to the young man. "I'm not going to help you get away."

The young man smiled his charming, dangerous smile again. "I don't intend to. Let's go."

Vairon decided that his options were limited when faced with the muzzle of a phaser. He turned and walked towards the door with a heavy heart. If it was his lot to die tonight at the hands of an alien invader, then so be it, he decided. Others would take his place as had happened for the entire length of this long, bloody war. Nothing would change.


End file.
